


Le Coucher de la lune

by kaasknot



Category: Versailles (TV 2015)
Genre: Gen, Grieving, canon character death, spoilers for season 1 finale
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-11
Updated: 2015-12-11
Packaged: 2018-05-06 04:17:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,297
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5402714
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kaasknot/pseuds/kaasknot
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“<i>Can you hear the flowers? They are singing</i>.” Coda to S01xE10</p>
            </blockquote>





	Le Coucher de la lune

**Author's Note:**

> Beta’d by trillgutterbug, who's as alone as I am in the criminally underpopulated English side of this fandom.

Philippe pulled back from the edge of the bed. Henriette’s arm remained outstretched, reaching for comfort she was past needing; Louis, reduced to a scared, shocked little boy in place of a man, still held her other hand. He squeezed her fingers as though it might press the life back into them, as though his wealth and power could pull harder and faster than death itself. What else could be expected a king.

The air was cloying. The scent of a thousand lilies, tulips, and narcissus, brought into the royal bedchamber at the king’s command, clung to the back of Philippe’s throat. He couldn’t avoid it; the flowers were packed in from wall to bed, so close the hem of his justaucorps sent leaves bobbing willy-nilly. The effect was lovely, a bier fit for a queen. It strangled Philippe. The sweet stench of them mingled with the pall of blood and sickness to remind him of the battlefield, and it was only long years of practice that allowed him to smooth his face. His eyes were hot, swollen; they stung, and his cheeks were cold with tears. But beneath, Monsieur Philippe, duc d’Orléans, d’Anjou, de Chartres, reached for his armor. He layered it over the wound in his faltering heart, buckling it down with drilled-in determination. He stepped back from the bed and walked out of his wife’s death-chamber as steadily as he could. Bishop Bossuet intoned the final “ _Amen_ ” behind him.

It seemed perverse that the palace was unchanged. The very earth had moved, and yet nobles still thronged the halls, servants slipped by unnoticed around the edges, and the ever-present Swiss Guard kept watch. They passed as shadows through the mist, and their color and gaiety, their clever chatter, all of it was muted and distant. Philippe walked until he stumbled, and when the weight of their curious eyes fell upon him, he slipped through the first door at hand. It was a simple sitting room, papered in robin’s egg silk, lined with pastoral scenes of sheep and dozing shepherds. Late-spring sunshine poured through the windows. A cluster of nobles sat playing cards in the corner, and their laughter was salt on his heartache.

“Out,” he ordered, his voice an unrecognizable rasp. Whatever expression he wore was sufficient to move them, and they left in a flutter of lace and surreptitious glances. The click of the latch behind them was echoing. Philippe walked to the table; they had been in the midst of a round of Lenterne, their cards scattered haphazardly among the coins.

He had played a hand himself not two days ago, cleaning out a hapless marquis of his sanguinity. A night and a day later and here he was, staring down at a deck of cards as though they were a court jester’s taunt. Sudden fury boiled out of him, and he tore the chair away from the table and threw it across the room. He threw the next one too, upsetting the table and snapping off a chair leg against the parquet floors, but it wasn’t _enough_. 

He set into the rest of the room with a will. He ripped the curtains from their rods; he shoved over the statue of Venus in the corner. A priceless vase from China stood upon the mantle; Philippe swept it to the floor, and the bell-chime shatter of its pieces undercut his ragged, animal breathing. He braced his trembling fists against the fireplace and let out the scream choking his throat. He screamed, and it was as raw as his soul.

He had loved his wife. Perhaps not in the way either of them would have wished, but she had been there for him despite. When he was angry at his brother, she endured and quelled his rage; when his blood grew hot she would send word for le Chevalier; when his horrors rose in the bitterness of night, soused in wine and echoing with cannon-fire, she would smooth her hand over his brow and chase them away. Henriette d’Angleterre had been the gentle warmth of spring to his bite of autumn frost, the respite of a shaded lake after the heat of the sun. He loved her, in his way.

His knees buckled as his voice gave out. He clung to the mantle, pressed his forehead against the carved laurel leaves until pain cut through the haze inside him. His limbs shook; he would tear the world apart, if only he could have her back. He let out a broken, quiet sob.

What was he to do, without her? His brother resented him and needed him in equal measure, twisting him back and forth on the tide of kingly whim, and even de Lorraine seemed sometimes only interested in him for his position (and his cock, mustn’t forget that). He was to provide guidance to the army, spectacle to the court, and the picture of demure fraternal support for the council. Even, on occasion, he was to suss out traitors without ever betraying the crown for himself.

Henriette had been the only person who hadn't wanted anything of him. She had expected some attention, of course, but her affections had lain elsewhere, and she was--not content, it would be foolish to say so, there was no such thing as _contentment_ in the King’s Court--but she was not unduly bothered by his Chevalier and endless stream of handsome lovers, any more than he had been (he doesn't look at this lie too closely) by her affair with his brother.

He had been able to be himself, with Henriette. More than he had with anyone else, at least.

He drew the tattered scraps of his reserve over himself like a burial shroud. His chest felt hollowed out, spent like a burnt firework: nothing but a wasted husk in the aftermath. The fireplace mantle was cool against his cheek. He pressed the heated socket of his eye against it. Grief splintered through him, but it didn’t signify; men grieved, husbands grieved, childhood friends grieved. Even dukes could grieve. But princes did not. They stayed distant and cold as the stars, pale shadows of their brother suns.

The mere thought of Louis curdled Philippe’s stomach. The _Sun King. He_ had done this, he had sent Philippe’s wife out into the midst of intrigue when she was weak from miscarriage, he had made her a target in his stead. And for what? Political expedience? Of course, Louis had been with her at her bedside too, pale with fear and sorrow, but if anyone was to blame it was him. Philippe grit his teeth until the pressure made his head ache. The king’s favorite. That was what she had been, and it had killed her as surely as the poison. He hated nothing in that moment as he hated his brother.

And yet. The Spanish topaz weighed down his pocket, a question with no answer. He pounded the side of his fist against the marble. It didn’t help.

He could not stay here. He pushed himself upright and straightened his coat. His cuffs were a twisted disgrace; he righted them as best as he was able, and ran his fingers through his hair to restore it to its usual pristine fall. He wiped his eyes. He blew his nose. By the time he had tucked his handkerchief back in his sleeve he had become, once again, Monsieur.

Henriette would lay in state until preparations could be made to transport her. Already Philippe’s mind drew over the details. The Madame of France was entitled to a queen’s burial, and Louis, for all his lesser qualities, would be united with him in this. Philippe swallowed back his trembling grief and stepped into the hall.

There was much to do.

**Author's Note:**

> Let's build this fandom up, yeah? Here's my [tumblr](http://kaasknot.tumblr.com/post/134991220304/le-coucher-de-la-lune-kaasknot-versailles-tv)


End file.
